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466Chapter 8: Boggarts

Updated 7/18/18

Boggarts

The next two weeks flew by, and before Harry knew it, it was nearly Halloween. The animosity between Sirius and Severus continued, as did the tension between Harry and Sirius whenever the subject was broached. James, Peter, and Sirius were still suspicious of Harry learning Remus's secret (and Remus was still nervous about Harry figuring it out). And Harry was still leaving clues, more and more obvious ones, that he was catching on. But despite all that, the Marauders all but considered him one of them. It was bittersweet.

On the one hand, Harry was thrilled at their growing friendship. But on the other hand, he was frequently reminded of those he missed from his own timeline. And not just future-Sirius and future-Remus, either, but Ron and Hermione, his best friends, and the Weasley twins. Quidditch season had started as well, with the first game coming up at the beginning of November. Sirius and James were both on the team. And Harry wasn't. So he missed his Quidditch teammates, and he missed flying.

As Halloween grew closer, a pit grew in Harry's stomach. Never in his life since entering the Wizarding World had a Halloween gone smoothly, and he had a sinking feeling that something was bound to go wrong this time, too. At the very least, Harry became more and more acutely aware of what the holiday meant to him personally, as the anniversary of his parents' deaths—especially as both of them were beside him all day, nearly every day, very much alive and with not a clue that in five short years, they'd both be dead and their infant son would be left orphaned.

The only thing that kept Harry from sinking into a depression was the fact that the Marauders were in full-blown prank planning mode. Apparently, they did a huge prank for every annual holiday (including each other's birthdays). And Halloween was the first one of the year. So naturally, it had to be the biggest. Harry tried to stay out of it, if only because he didn't want to risk detention. But by Wednesday of the week leading up to Halloween, Harry was completely roped into it. And all his free time between then and Halloween was taken up by prank planning.

The rest of the school was starting to get into the Halloween spirit as well. On Thursday, Hagrid (who was still gamekeeper in this time, and very much the same as always) brought in the massive pumpkins from his pumpkin patch. They were set to decorate the main entrance and the Great Hall, and there was a particularly big one on either side of the grand staircase in the Entrance Hall. All of them were carved in a spectacular manner, evidently done by Hagrid himself. Most featured magical creatures; only a few had the traditional jack o' lantern faces carved into them.

The other teachers made references to Halloween in their lessons as well. Professor McGonagall explained the superstition behind black cats in a review on animagi and animal symbolism, in preparation for further lessons on those topics after Halloween. Professor Flitwick taught some fun charms that would aid greatly in creating costumes and scaring friends. Professor Slughorn had them brewing Polyjuice potion—well, continuing to brew it, as it had to be prepared in steps over the course of a month. Professor Babbling explained the mythology behind All Hallow's Eve and some of the runic symbols used to ward off unwanted spirits and creatures. Professor Vector explained the numerology behind All Hallow's Eve and the apparent thinning of the veil between the real world and the world of spirits on that particular night each year. Professor Sprout focused her lesson on certain plants that only bloomed on the full moon or near the Autumnal Equinox. Professor Dean also had a special lesson plan for the holiday, though it was one that hit a little too close to home.

When the Gryffindor and Slytherin sixth years entered the DADA classroom on Friday, the day before Halloween, they found a very different setup from the usual. The desks were set up in concentric semicircles, rather than in regular rows, and in place of Professor Dean's desk was a large trunk. As students gathered around it in curiosity, it rattled and shook. The students jumped in surprise and alarm; Harry felt his blood run cold.

"Harrison! Over here!" Sirius called from the front of the room. He pointed to a seat beside him, barely out of arm's reach of the trunk. Harry glanced at Tonks, who had entered just behind him, half-hoping for some form of salvation. She shrugged helplessly and took her own seat nearby.

"Yeah, come on, Harry!" James echoed. He sat on the other side of the empty desk Sirius had indicated. Harry took the indicated seat with caution—between Sirius Black and James Potter was a very dangerous place to be, and there was no telling what they'd done to the seat or desk in the few moments they'd been in the classroom.

Remus and Peter took the seats just behind them, and seconds later, the bell rang. Professor Dean swept into the room, cutting through the chatter with his footsteps. He seemed unusually serious, but with a hint of mischief in his grizzled face.

"Today I thought we might do something a little…festive, as most of your other professors have done. So, who can tell me what I've got in this trunk?"

Several hands went up, and Harry reluctantly raised his hand as well. Professor Dean called on him.

"It's a boggart," Harry said. "It's a shapeshifter that shows us our worst fears."

"Very good. Very succinct. Five points to Gryffindor," he said, nodding in approval. The trunk gave another ominous rattle, and the students closest to it leaned away in sudden fear. The auror smiled unpleasantly. "A boggart is a shapeshifter," Professor Dean continued. "No one knows what it looks like when it's by itself. But that doesn't matter. What matters is what happens when it appears in front of you. Do you have the mettle to face your fears—quite literally laugh them away—or will you freeze up and find yourself at its mercy?" He eyed each of them fiercely. He also effectively cut off any dissenters who may have protested because boggarts were usually covered in third year. "Because boggarts do more than scare you," the professor continued. "They can hurt you if you don't banish them fast enough."

He stopped and let his words sink in, letting the students get worked up over the rattling trunk in the resulting silence. Harry's heart skipped a beat as the lid lifted slightly, pulling at the lock. Finally, the auror-turned-professor spoke again. "So, how do you face down and defeat a boggart?"

Most of the class raised their hands. Harry didn't feel like answering, so he left his hand down and instead glanced around the room at his classmates' expressions. Most of them wore a look of concentration. Across the room, though, Snape wore an expression of intense determination. Harry couldn't help but wonder what his future potions professor's worst fear was.

"You, Pettigrew," Professor Dean said, pointing at Peter. Harry tried not to groan as he saw the glint in Peter's eyes.

"You make it look utterly riddikulus," he said, grinning. The professor's eye twitched at the pun and several students sniggered. James gave Peter a high-five under the table.

"Technically correct," Professor Dean conceded after a moment. "The spell is riddikulus, and it is powered not just by your wand and magic, but by your emotions. The same is true of many spells. I believe you will cover this further in your charms class next term. In this case, especially, if you're scared, the spell won't do a thing. You have to be amused. So, take a minute to think about your greatest fear, and how you will force it into a shape you find amusing. Then we will face it one by one until everyone has gone. Clear?"

There was a murmur of assent.

"Then push your desks back, take out your wands, and line up around the room. Also," the professor added sternly, "I expect you to do this as silently as possible. We have not spent the last two months practicing nonverbal casting to throw it away now. If you still cannot cast nonverbally, you will have to whisper."

Harry tried to distract himself from the growing pit of anxiety in his stomach by glancing around the room. Most students did appear to be concentrating, one or two of them mouthing to themselves. Remus had gone pale, however, and a sheen of sweat shone on his brow—he was afraid of his secret getting out. Sirius looked more determined than Harry had ever seen, and his hand was fisted in a white-knuckled grip around his wand. Tonks appeared cool and collected, like this was just routine. But there were white tips in her dark hair that gave away her anxiety. She looked up when she felt Harry's gaze, then she gave him an encouraging smile and mouthed "good luck." Harry swallowed hard and nodded—his throat was dry.

Suddenly, the first of the students were going. Harry began to panic. He wasn't very far down the line, and there was simply no way to make his worst fear even remotely amusing. Not that he could think of, anyway. And he couldn't cast a Patronus, because that would raise far more questions than he ever wanted to answer. Harry wiped his sweaty hands on his robes and readjusted his grip on his wand. He prayed he would manage, but he didn't have very high hopes.

Suddenly it was Sirius's turn. Harry glimpsed a figure that looked exactly like his friend, but wearing a Slytherin tie and a Slytherin sneer. Abruptly, boggart-Sirius turned into James, drenched in bright pink goop as Sirius waved his wand lazily. He smirked at the real James's indignant expression. Then it was Harry's turn.

Harry had barely taken a step forward when the room temperature plummeted. Several people cried out in alarm, and a few others gasped. Harry started to shake as echoes from that Halloween night started replaying in his mind. He swallowed dryly, raised his wand. His hand trembled, and no spell rose to his lips. The black, hooded figure drew closer, its icy fingers reaching towards Harry's heart.

Lily, take Harry and go!

Stand aside, you silly girl!

Bow to death, Harry.

Kill the spare.

I killed Sirius Black!

Not Harry! Please, not Harry!

A high-pitched scream. A thud. A flash of green light.

"Expec—R-Riddikulus!" a familiar voice cried as if from a distance. The paralyzing cold began to fade from the room, but it still gripped Harry's insides. His vision was blurry and somehow, he was on the ground against the far wall, his hands over his ears. His entire body shook violently. Voices started talking and exclaiming all at once, but it was all just a rush of noise. Until:

"Harry? Are you okay?" Lily, take Harry and go!

"He needs the hospital wing!" Not Harry! Please, not Harry!

"I'll take—" Go, run, I'll hold him off!

"I will take him." The familiar voice was unusually cold. A deceptively strong hand gripped Harry around the upper arm and hauled him to his feet. Harry was dimly aware of being led through an open doorway. Then the world tilted and everything tunneled. A piece of chocolate was shoved into his mouth and he instinctively swallowed.

Instantly warmth flooded through his body and the world swirled back into focus. It wasn't enough to totally dispel the echoes or the cold gripping his insides. But it cleared his head (mostly) and let him realize he lay on the cold stone floor. A familiar heart-shaped face appeared above him, framed by black hair shot through with gray and green.

"Harry?"

"Do you habitually carry chocolate around with you?" Harry slurred—he still wasn't fully conscious.

"You should just be grateful and be done with it," Tonks replied frankly, though her face colored slightly. She swiped the back of her hand over her eyes, then grabbed Harry's arm and helped him stand.

Harry struggled to get his feet under him, forcing back the continued echoes in his mind and the dizziness that threatened to send him back to the ground, and much harder this time. The walls still spun in his vision, and if it weren't for Tonks he would have become very familiar with the stone floor of the corridor.

"Are you back now?" Tonks asked worriedly once he was more or less steady on his feet.

"N-nearly," Harry answered shakily. He shuddered involuntarily as those voices echoed once more in his mind.

"Right. Hospital wing, then."

"No! I'm fine!" Harry tried to protest, but his sudden vehemence upset his balance and he nearly tumbled to the ground again. Another involuntary shudder shook his frame and his stomach clenched as images joined the voices in his mind. Tonks's little piece of chocolate had done little more than bring Harry back into full awareness of what, exactly, had happened.

Tonks raised one skeptical eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Sure you are. Move your feet."

Harry tried to oblige, but the world tilted again and darkness was closing in. His limbs did not want to obey him.

After that, Harry couldn't really remember how he'd made it to the hospital wing. He remembered being in the corridor trying to stay on his feet, then the next thing he knew he was being settled into a bed by a fussy matron while Tonks looked on, her expression a mix of pity and amusement. He was handed a mug of steaming cocoa and he drank it without complaint. It was only as he was drifting off that he realized it had been laced with a sleeping potion.

No. Not Harry. Please, not Harry!

Step aside, you silly girl.

Kill the spare.

Lily, take Harry and run!

Bow to death, Harry.

Please, take me. Kill me instead!

I killed Sirius Black!

A cold, cruel laugh. A flash of green light. Pain. Then nothing.

Harry woke, gasping. He tried to take a deep breath, only for it to catch in his throat as memories—living nightmares, really—washed over him again. Biting his lip, Harry rolled onto his side and curled into a loose ball. The silence pressed in on him, just asking to be filled by echoes of his past, the horrors he'd been forced to endure all rushing back at once. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his hands fisting in the sheets, and tried to stay quiet as his pillow grew damp beneath his cheek.

Harry dozed fitfully throughout the afternoon, only to be roused by Madame Pomphrey at dinnertime. She asked if he felt all right; Harry said he was fine, and she allowed him to leave. Harry headed to the Great Hall much subdued and mentally and emotionally exhausted. He could feel a headache coming on and his limbs still felt like lead. But he put on a good face as he approached the Gryffindor table and took his seat with his friends.

"All right, Harry?" James greeted cheerfully.

"Yeah. Fine," Harry replied, forcing a convincing smile onto his face.

"You had us worried for a minute there," Sirius said conversationally.

"You were worried?" James cut in. "I was about ready to have a heart attack when he—you—fainted like that!" He turned back to Harry. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine," Harry repeated. Maybe if he said it enough times, he'd start to believe it.

"Not expecting a dementor?" Remus asked.

Harry shrugged. "Something like that." Rather, he'd forgotten just how bad they were, and how much more material they had to torture him with now, as opposed to third year.

"But you're better now?" Peter asked.

"Yep," Harry fibbed with a wide smile. "All better." Until I have nightmares tonight, anyway, he thought. And just to prove his point, he started shoveling food onto his plate and wolfing it down with abandon.

"Good," Sirius said. "Because there's still work to be done on our prank for tomorrow."

"But wow, your boggart is a dementor?" James asked as if Sirius hadn't spoken. Sirius scowled lightly.

"Yeah, I guess it is," Harry said with a shrug. He wished they'd just stop talking about it, though; rehashing the experience wasn't helping.

"But what does that mean?" James continued as though Harry hadn't spoken. "I mean, I'm scared of banshees, but that's just because of mum's bedtime stories. I've never actually seen one. Have you ever seen a real dementor?"

Harry's stomach churned unpleasantly. Suddenly his roast potatoes and string beans were no longer as appetizing as they'd been a moment ago.

"You know, we still have to iron out the kinks in the execution," Sirius interrupted. "I mean, the fireworks last time worked great, but this time I want something with more of an impact, if you know what I mean."

"I've never actually seen a dementor, of course, so I don't know how realistic that was. But…it felt real, y'know? That's why I asked, if you've ever seen a real one."

"Are you still on about that?" Peter cut in unexpectedly.

"Would you lay off the dementors already?" Remus said, rather harshly. Everyone turned to him to see that Remus was unusually pale, considering the full moon wasn't for another week and a half.

"But it's fascinating, see. Dad talks about them all the time, 'cos it's part of his work. I want to know what they're really like."

"Lay off it already!" Sirius all but shouted. James turned to him, surprised.

"But you think they're fascinating, too, right, Padfoot? Don't you want to know what a real dementor is like?"

"Today was as close as I ever want to get," Sirius declared darkly. "Right, Harrison?"

Four curious pairs of eyes turned toward Harry, who was trying not to pass out.

"Harry?" Peter asked.

James poked his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Just fine," Harry grumbled. In fact, he was very far from fine. He felt lightheaded and the ache in his chest was turning into nausea. All he wanted to do was lay down and sleep.

"You're white as a sheet," Remus said worriedly.

"Am I?" Harry asked, trying for casual. Remus nodded. Harry sighed; so much for pretending he was fine. "I'm going to bed." Harry got to his feet and left the Great Hall, leaving his dinner largely untouched.

"You daft berk!" Sirius hissed, cuffing James upside the head.

"And I thought Sirius was the insensitive one," Peter put in, his voice hard.

"What?" James's confusion was obvious in his voice.

"What Sirius is trying to say," Remus explained, "is talking about dementors after what happened in Defense today was more than a little tactless."

"But—"

"Shut up," Sirius said, rather harshly. Then he got up and followed Harry to the dorm.

When Harry got back to the dorm, he collapsed facedown onto the nearest bed—James's—and tried hard to fight down the despair that threatened to engulf him. His stomach churned and his head ached, but mostly his throat burned and his eyes stung.

Some moments later, Harry heard the door open and close. He hurriedly tried to seem like he was sleeping. Then an achingly familiar chuckle sounded nearby.

"Nice try, Harrison, but I invented the 'pretend to be asleep to avoid talking about it' technique."

"Good for you," Harry retorted, his voice muffled. "Leave me alone." He tried to sound angry; it came out more like a plea.

"James is a blind git sometimes," Sirius continued conversationally. Harry felt the mattress depress behind him. "He's a great friend, but when it comes to noticing that stuff, he's more blind than a niffler."

"If you're trying to make me feel better, it's not working," Harry mumbled, pressing his face deeper into the pillow.

"Good thing I'm not trying to make you feel better, then."

"Then go away." Harry voice was still muffled by the pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to commit James's—his father's—scent to memory. Sweat, grass, and the faintest hint of smoke, like from a firework.

Take Harry and go. Go, run, I'll hold him off.

"You're not the only one affected by those monsters," Sirius said with uncharacteristic harshness.

"I said go away." Harry's voice cracked. He pressed his face even deeper into the pillow, nearly suffocating himself.

I killed Sirius Black!

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, a comforting and almost familiar weight. Harry then realized he was shaking. I'm not going to break down in front of my godfather. I'm not, he tried to tell himself. But it felt like the dementor still had a hold on him, the icy coldness seeping through his skin to grip his stomach and squeeze his heart. Darkness closed in on him; even with his eyes closed he swore the world was spinning. He turned his head slightly to breathe; it turned into a choked sob. For the second time that day, the pillow grew damp beneath his skin. The last thing he felt before sleep took him was a large, warm, furry form pressed against his back, and a sandpaper tongue on his cheek.